My florescent pink barbie
all dolled up
like the whore you. . .
. . .bought last night,
lays next to
this pristine football
you've given to me
still it its carboard. . .
two day's late for my birthday
. . . on basball print sheets
picked out of the bargain bin.
Mommy's blush and pearls
shamefully slipping
out of their secret,
cotton prison
you locked with denial
so deep, black, all encompasing.
"Daddy, I want to be a Mommy. . .
because I don't want to be a Daddy like you"
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